John Anderson my jo, John, And sleep thegither at the foot, In the first volume of a collection, entitled "Poetry, Original and Selected," printed in penny numbers by Brash and Reid, booksellers of Glasgow, between the years 1795 and 1798, this song is given as follows: John Anderson my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en ; John Anderson my jo, John, ye were my first conceit, And ye maunna think it strange, John, though I ca' ye trim and neat; John Anderson my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns; Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me! And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson my to. John Anderson my jo, John, when we were first acquent, John Anderson my jo, John, frae year to year we've pass'd, "The stanza," says Dr. Currie, "with which this song, inserted by Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In regard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two that are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given to the world, as the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh stanza,—' our hearts were ne'er our foe,'-would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our hard has adopted defective rhymes; but a single instance cannot be produced in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought in false grammar. These additional stanzas are not, however, without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting." The following three stanzas were published by Brash and Reid, but not quoted by Dr. Currie. The idea is the same as that expressed by Burns, but has not the masterly expression he gave to it. John Anderson my jo, John, Our siller ne'er was rife, We've aye haen bit and brat, John, And that helps to keep peace at hame, John Anderson my jo, John, The world lo'es us baith; We ne'er spak' ill o' neibours, John, Nor did them ony skaith; To live in peace and quietness Was a' our care, ye know; And I'm sure they'll greet when we are dead, John Anderson my jo, John, And when the time is come, That we, like ither auld folk, John, Maun sink into the tomb; A motto we will hae, my John, To let the world know We happy lived, contented died, John Anderson my jo. SAE FLAXEN WERE HER RINGLETS. BURNS. Air-"Onagh's waterfall." SAE flaxer were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue Bewitchingly o'erarching Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonnie face Her pretty ancle is a spy Wad make a saint forget the sky. Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Declared that she could do nae mair. And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; By whimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'e me best of a'? Burns's songs were not all adapted to Scottish, but some few of them to Irish and to English melodies. "Do you know," he says, in a letter to Thomson, "a blackguard Irish song called 'Onagh's waterfall?' The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic Muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air than none at all." DINNA ASK ME GIN I LUVE THEE. From the "Minstrelsy of the North of Scotland," collected by Peter Buchan. DINNA ask me gin I luve thee, Deed I darena tell; Dinna ask me gin I luve thee, When ye come to yon town end- Oh, dinna look at me sa aft, Dinna ask me, &c. Little ken ye but mony ane DELVIN SIDE. From a manuscript collection of the "Northern Scottish Minstrelsy," WILL ye gae, my bonny May; Will ye gae, my bonny bridie; Will ye gae, my bonny May, An' breast the braes o' Delvin sidie? Where got ye that bonny May; Where got ye that bonny bridie ? I got her down by Buchan's how, Can ye play me Delvin side; Or else I swear I'll brak your-fiddle. I can play ye Delvin side, I can play ye Delvin diddle, I can play ye Delvin side; My bowstring's sweet, an' sweet's my fiddle. This composition is of no merit, but is given, with others from Mr. Buchan's collection, as a specimen of the songs that continue to be popular among the peasantry, notwithstanding all that was done by Burns and others to introduce a higher style, and better taste among them. THE EVENING STAR. DR. JOHN LEYDEN, died 1811. How sweet thy modest light to view, Fair star! to love and lovers dear; While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through the tear; Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam To see thy lovely face so fair. Though, blazing o'er the arch of night, Thine are the soft enchanting hours Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland Fair star! though I be doomed to prove That rapture's tears are mixed with pain Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love, But sweeter to be loved again. |